6 


Up  In  Alaska 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
Jo  Anderson  - 
Sacramento,  California 


Printed  by  the 
Jos.  M.  Anderson  Company 


jUlustrations  bu 
pf)avu  ^vct 


Contents 

Page 

To  the  Dogs              ....  11 

The  Sourdough             .           .           .  .12 

Robert  Service         ....  15 

Toast  to  Elks      .           .           .           .  .17 

Spring  in  Nome        ....  20 

St.  Patrick's  Day  Toast           .           .  .22 

A  Friend 23 

The  Little  Tin  Bucket  .           .           .  .24 

Toast  to  Norway       ....  27 

Lest  You  Forget           ...  .29 

Down  in  Virginia     ....  31 

Up  in  Alaska      .           .           .           .  .33 

Merry  Christmas      ....  35 

Santa  Glaus        .           .           .           .  .36 

A  Christmas  Carol   ....  37 

A  Wish 38 

The  Trail  Song         ....  39 

Christmas  Night  in  Nome        .           .  .41 

Es  Selamu  Aleikum            ...  42 

The  King  of  the  Trail    .           .           .  .45 

My  Pupmobile          ....  46 

The  Alaska  Forget-Me-Not      .           .  .47 

A  Growl  From  Nome          ...  49 

Songs  of  the  Sea           .           .           .  .55 

Metempsychosis       ....  57 

Nome  59 


>  ,1  7  o 

;•  "•£  i  o 


O  The  Alaskaiws 


Who,  regardless  of 
Greed  or  Nationality, 
Poverty  or  Wealth, 
recognize  a  Brother 
hood  that  needs  no 
Rules,  that  sees  no 
Limitations  —  "The 
Brotherhood,"  as 
Robert  Service  so 
truly  calls  it,  "Of 
Men  that  Know  the 
North." 


To  the  Dogs 


I  pledge  the  Health  of  Good  Fellows— 
The  Friends  who  are  stanch  and  true — 
And  I  do  not  care  if  it's  "Prosit"  and  Beer, 
Or  Sparkling  Champagne  "a  vous." 
I'm  ready  for  "Skol"  with  the  Norseman, 
With  the   Boys  in  Blue  here's  "How"— 
But  with  every  real  Alaskan, 
Let  it  be  "To  the  Dogs— Bow  wow!" 


The  Sourdough 

F  you've  lived  up  in  Alaska, 

Where  the  Arctic  breezes  blow, 
Till  you've  seen  the  Autumn  ice  come, 

And  you've  seen  the  Spring  ice  go, 
And  survived  one  long  dark  winter 

When  the  Mercury  ran  low, 
You  can  drop  the  name  "Checkako" 

And  become  a  "Sourdough." 

If  you've  planted  in  your  garden 

By  a  swift  and  dextrous  throw, 
Many  demijohns  and  bottles 

In  the  drifts  of  deep  white  snow, 
And  in  May  you  are  not  speechless 

When  you/  find  the  soil  can  grow 
Mammoth  crops  of  "Lemps"  and  "Lacey" 

You're  a  seasoned  "Sourdough." 

[  12] 


If  you  have  no  tender  feeling, 

And  with  pride  you  do  not  glow 
When  you  take  out  last  year's  headgear, 

With  its  feather,  quill  or  bow, 
Knowing  there's  a  tragic  moment 

When  the  first  boat  deals  the  blow 
That  your  clothes  are  prehistoric, 

Then  you  are  a  "Sourdough." 

If  you  listen  to  the  wailing 

Of  the  Malamutes  who  throw 
In  their  voices  all  the  wildness 

Of  a  wolf  in  deepest  woe, 
And  it  soothes  you  into  slumber 

Like  a  sweet  song  soft  and  low, 
You  can  feel  that  you  belong  here, 

And  you  are  a  ' '  Sourdough. ' ' 

If  you  say  "Mush  on"  and  "Peluk" 

Somewhat  carelessly  to  show 
That  you  understand  the  trail  talk 

And  some  words  of  Eskimo, 
Then  remark,  ' '  The  air  is  balmy ; 

Only  thirty-five  below," 
Everyone  will  surely  tell  you 

You've  become  a  "Sourdough." 

[  13] 


If  you  find  you've  lost  your  memory, 

And  you  little  care  or  know 
All  the  great  things  men  are  doing 

Far  beyond  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  you  feel,  in  spring,  that  lemons 

Handed  even  by  a  foe, 
Would  look  to  you  like  peaches, 

Then  you  are  a  "  Sourdough. " 


[  14  ] 


Robert  Service 

An  Appreciation 

The  North,  it  is  yours  through  his  verses — 
With  him  you  can  follow  the  Trail, 

And  exult  with  those  who  fight  and  win, 
Or  suffer  with  those  who  fail. 

Though  you  sit  by  the  glowing  embers, 
In  the  warmth  of  your  "am  fireside," 

You  shall  feel  the  chill  of  the  icy  blast, 
As  it  sweeps  the  tundra  wide. 

Your  eyes  shall  turn  from  the  shaded  lamp, 
To  the  calm  of  the  still  clear  night, 

And  a  ghostly  splendor  shall  hold  you  fast 
In  the  spell  of  the  Northern  Light. 

Your  ears  shall  be  deaf  to  the  rumble 

Of  the  traffic  that  passes  by, 
And  shall  hear  in  the  Arctic  stillness 

The  wolf  dog's  distant  cry. 

You  shall  know  the  lure  of  the  trackless  snows, 

The  mountain  and  frozen  sea — 
And  your  soul  shall  forget  its  petty  cares, 

Its  paltry  aims,  and  be  free. 

[  15  ] 


You  shall  feel  the  passions  of  primitive  men, 

The  fever  and  lust  for  gold 
That  risks  disaster  upon  the  trail, 

And  death  in  the  bitter  cold. 

Perhaps,  in  the  shade  of  a  stately  palm, 

'Neath  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 
He  has  made  his  North  seem  real  to  you, 

And  you  feel  that  his  tales  ring  true. 

But  if  you  have  lived  in  this  snow  swept  land, 

His  verses  are  part  of  your  life — 
His  men  are  your  friends  and  your  comrades, 

Their  struggles  are  yours  and  their  strife. 

And  you  know  that  wherever  your  lines  be  cast, 

Wherever  you  wander  forth, 
You  will  feel  with  him  those  strange  strong  bonds 
Of  the  "Brotherhood  of  the  North." 


Toast  to  Elks— 1908 


(Read  as  the  Eleven  O'clock  Toast  at  the  Ball  Given  by  the  Elks'  Club 
of  Nome,  January  12,  1908) 


S  tke  mystic  hour  approaches, 

When  the  hands  of  time  stand 

still, 
That  the  hearts  of  Elks,  responsive, 

May  feel  a  world  wide  thrill, 
We  rise  and  drink  to  them  standing 

And  wherever  they  may  be, 
Go  the  greetings  of  their  Brothers 

Who  are  "North  of  Fifty-three." 

Here  may  stop  the  law  of  God  or 

man, 

But  you  know  from  out  your  soul 
That  the  zone  of  all  good  Brother 
hood 

Will  reach  from  Pole  to  Pole. 
When    our    old    friend,    Rudyard 

Kipling, 

Wrote  of  distant  Mandalay, 
The  land  where  maids  are  dusky 
And  the  flying  fishes  play, 

[  17  ] 


He  paid  a  hearty  tribute 

To  the  deep  and  constant  thirst 
Which  is  rampant  in  that  country 

" Where  the  best  is  like  the  worst." 
And  I  only  wish  that  Kipling 

Might  be  here  in  Nome  today — 
I  think  he'd  write  far  finer  verse 

Than  that  on  Mandalay, 

And  he'd  tell  in  rhythmic  numbers 

Of  the  town  on  Bering  Sea, 
Where  the  thirst  makes  that  of  Suez 

Look  a  paltry  "twenty-three." 
He  could  write  of  the  old  world  vineyards, 

Of  the  amber  grape  of  France, 
Of  the  German  beer  with  its  creamy  foam, 

Of  the  native  "Hootch"  perchance; 

And  he'd  prove  that  the  virtues  of  every  land 

From  the  Nile  to  the  terraced  Rhine, 
That  the  fire  of  the  South  and  the  strength 
of  the  North, 

Are  ours  while  we  drink  this  wine ; 
This  wine,  which  takes  to  the  absent  Elks, 

No  matter  where  they  roam, 
The  wireless  message  of  love  and  cheer 

From  the  hearts  of  the  Elks  in  Nome. 

[18] 


And  here,  in  the  "Great  White  Silence/' 

Now  gay  with  our  mirth  and  song, 
Where  the  popping  corks  make  music, 

And  the  happy  laugh  rings  long, 
We  turn  this  night  to  our  Brothers 

Beyond  the  Frozen  Sea, 
And  we  drink  to  them — a  Bumper — 

Wherever  they  may  be. 


[19] 


Spring  in  Nome 

I  dream  of  the  May  of  a  vanished  year, 

And  the  lure  of  the  South  is  with  me  here — 

The  charm  of  a  day  in  sunny  Spain, 

When  I  watched  with  a  joy  akin  to  pain 

Granada's  walls,  the  tall  gray  tower, 

The  far-off  church  at  the  sunset  hour, 

Where  the  sound  of  the  Angelus,  soft  and  clear, 

Fell  like  music  upon  my  ear. 

I  dream  of  Japan  in  a  long  gone  May, 

Where  little  maids,  in  bright  array, 

Looked  quaintly  out  of  their  almond  eyes 

And  fluttered  like  mammoth  butterflies, 

Through  the  cloudy  pink  of  the  cherry  trees, 

Whose  blossoms  swayed  in  the  gentle  breeze. 

And  May  in  the  gardens  of  old  Stamboul, 

Where  the  wind  from  the  Golden  Horn  blows  cool, 

And  the  perfume  of  Jasmine  fills  the  air, 

And  the  sea  is  blue  and  the  sky  is  fair. 

Or  spring  in  a  narrow  Arab  street, 

Where  lean  brown  men  from  the  Desert  meet, 

And  shadowy  white- veiled  women  fade 

Into  the  dusk  of  the  palm  trees'  shade, 

And  spring  in  Venice,  where  each  lagoon 

Is  a  silver  path  for  the  rising  moon, 

[20] 


Where  in  the  warm  still  night  you  hear 

The  distant  cry  of  the  gondolier. 

And  England's  May  with  its  Hawthorne  sweet, 

And  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  ripening  wheat; 

And  the  glories  of  May  in  the  Sunset  Land, 

With  the  yellow  poppies  on  every  hand, 

Where  spring  eternal  seems  to  wait 

And  linger  long  by  the  Golden  Gate. 

These  mem'ries  haunt,  yet  I  wake  in  Nome, 

And  I  find  that  only  in  dreams  I  roam, 

And  I  see  instead  of  the  bud  and  bloom 

The  lengthening'  days  and  the  winter's  doom; 

The  sooty  snow  as  it  melts  away, 

The  old  tin  cans  with  their  labels  gay ; 

The  ashes  and  bottles  and  broken  things 

That  May  in  this  Northern  City  brings. 

And  we  hear  the  wolf  dogs'  lonely  wail 

Instead  of  the  birds  in  a  leafy  dale. 

And  the  short  gray  day  and  the  long  dark  night 

Return  again  in  Time's  swift  flight; 

Yet  little  we  care  how  they  come  and  go, 

For  the  heart  alone  makes  Spring,  we  know. 


[21  ] 


St.  Patrick's  Day  Toast 


(Given  at  the  St.  Patrick's  Day  Banquet,  Held 

by  the  Knights  of  Robert  Emmet  in 

Nome,  March  17,  1908) 


E'LL  drink,  in  White  Alaska, 
To  the  Green  of  the  Emerald  Isle, 

Where  men  are  brave  and  maids 

are  fair, 
And  nature  seems  to  smile. 

We'll  drink  to  the  Irish  rover, 
Who  drifts  toward  the  Frozen 
Pole, 

Or  toils  in  the  heat  of  the  Tropics, 
Yet  is  Irish,  heart  and  soul. 


We'll  drink  to  Robert  Emmet 

And  the  cause  he  knew  was  right. 
We'll  drink  to  peace  with  honor, 

Or  the  chance  for  an  honest  fight. 
Then  we'll  drink  to  good  St.  Patrick 

And  what  he  did  at  Home 
In  keeping  snakes  from  the  Irish 

May  he  do  for  his  sons  in  Nome ! 


[22] 


A  Friend 

Sometimes  when  life  has  gone  wrong  with  you, 

And  the  world  seems  a  dreary  place, 

Has  your  dog  ever  silently  crept  to  your  feet, 

His  yearning  eyes  turned  to  your  face, — 

Has  he  made  you  feel  that  he  understands, 

And  all  that  he  asks  of  you 

Is  to  share  your  lot,  be  it  good  or  ill, 

With  a  chance  to  be  loyal  and  true? 

Are  you  branded  a  failure?    He  does  not  know — 

A  sinner?    He  does  not  care — 

You're  " Master"  to  him — that's  all  that  counts — 

A  word,  and  his  day  is  fair. 

Your  birth  and  your  station  are  nothing  to  him; 

A  Palace  and  Hut  are  the  same — 

And  his  love  is  yours,  in  honor  and  peace, 

And  it's  yours  through  disaster  or  shame. 

Though  others  forget  you,  and  pass  you  by, 

He  is  ever  your  Faithful  Friend — 

Who  is  ready  to  give  you  the  best  that  is  his, 

Unselfishly,  unto  the  End. 


[23] 


The  Little  Tin  Bucket 

(Written  on  the  S.  S.  Victoria,  September,  1908, 
En  Route  for  Nome,  for  an  Entertainment) 

Y  thoughts  often  turn  to  the  sea 

trips  I've  taken, 
When  firmly  my  feet  press  the 

good  solid  earth, 
And  my  heart  turns  in  thanks  to  that  modest  con 
trivance, 

The  little  tin  bucket  that  hangs  on  the  berth — 
The   square   covered   bucket,    the    clinging   brown 

bucket, 
The  friendly  tin  bucket  that  hangs  on  the  berth. 

It  shared  all  my  sorrows  when  shipmates  forsook  me, 

And  went  off  to  ponder  on  life's  paltry  worth. 
It  clung  through  my  moans  and  my  groans  and  my 

curses, 

Nor  left  when  I  violently  plunged  from  the  berth. 
The   square   covered   bucket,    the    clinging   brown 

bucket, 
The  friendly  tin  bucket  that  hangs  on  the  berth. 

It  hints  not  of  roses,  nor  Araby's  spices, 
Nor  comforts  of  Home  nor  a  warm  cheerful  hearth, 

[24] 


But  modestly  nestles  beneath  the  dark  curtain 
That  shuts  out  the  world  from  the  gloom  of  your 

berth. 
The   square    covered   bucket,    the    clinging   brown 

bucket, 
The  friendly  tin  bucket  that  hangs  on  the  berth. 

'Tis  plain,  and  'tis  humble,  and  asks  not  remem 
brance, 

When  life's  rosy  moments  are  filled  full  of  mirth — 
But  it  shares  both  your  bed  and  your  board  uncom 
plaining, 

In  all  the  drear  days  that  you  spend  in  your  berth. 
The   square   covered   bucket,    the    clinging   brown 

bucket, 
The  friendly  tin  bucket  that  hangs  on  the  berth. 


[25] 


/•T 


[26  ] 


Toast  to  Norway 

A  toast  from  Nome  to  Norway,— 
The  new  North  to  the  old — 

To  that  land  of  countless  beauties, 
From  this  far  bleak  land  of  gold. 

To  the  land  of  crags  and  torrents, 
Of  the  Fjords  that  darkly  lie, 

Where  the  pine  clad  mountains  tower, 
And  the  snow  line  meets  the  sky. 

To  the  land  of  matchless  Stallheim, 
Of  Trondhjem,  quaint  and  old, 

Christiania,  gay  and  modern, 
And  the  North  Cape  dark  and  bold. 

To  the  land  of  Grieg,  whose  music 
Can  bring  to  the  weary  heart 

The  thrill  of  Norway's  sprmgtime, 
With  the  touch  of  his  magic  art. 

To  the  land  where  a  mighty  master 
Stripped  with  his  skillful  pen 

The  shams  from  the  modern  drama, 
And  dealt  with  the  souls  of  men. 

[27  ] 


To  the  land  of  the  Ancient  Vikings, 
To  the  land  our  Hosts  call  Home — 

We  drink  a  toast  to  Norway — 
With  her  loyal  sons  in  Nome ! 


[28] 


Lest  You  Forget 

When  under  brighter  skies  in  sunnier  climes, 
Perchance  beneath  your  fig  tree  and  your  vine, 

Your  mind  may  sometimes  wander  back  to  Nome, 
And  conjure  up  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

The  perfect  Junes,  the  bitter  Arctic  nights 
May  linger,  as  some  half-forgotten  line, 
Or  strain  of  music  that  is  far  and  faint, 
Yet  brings  back  haunting  thoughts  of  Auld  Lang 
Syne. 

But  this  we  ask — what  else  may  be  forgot, 
That  in  your  heart  you  keep  a  little  shrine 

Where  we,  who  met  you  in  this  distant  land, 
May  hold  a  happy  place  for  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


[29  ] 


tA^zjp^F&ji 
^VA^*^^  <? 


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[30  ] 


Down  in  Virginia 

(Recited  in  Nome  by  a  Virginian.     Quoted  from  Memory) 

The  roses  nowhere  bloom  so  white 

As  in  Virginia; 
The  sunshine  nowhere  is  so  bright 

As  in  Virginia; 

The  flowers  nowhere  smell  so  sweet, 
And  nowhere  hearts  so  lightly  beat, 
For  Heaven  and  Earth  do  seem  to  meet 

Down  in  Virginia. 

There  nowhere  is  a  land  so  fair 

As  old  Virginia; 
So  full  of  song,  so  free  of  care 

As  old  Virginia; 

And  when  my  time  shall  come  to  die, 
Just  take  me  back  and  let  me  lie 
Close  where  the  James  goes  rolling  by, 

Down  in  Virginia. 

The  days  are  nowhere  quite  so  long 

As  in  Virginia; 
So  free  of  care,  so  full  of  song, 

As  in  Virginia; 

And  I  believe  the  Happy  Land, 
The  Lord  prepared  for  Mortal  Man, 
Is  built  exactly  on  the  plan 

Of  old  Virginia. 

[31  J 


[32] 


Up  in  Alaska 

The  snow  is  nowhere  quite  so  white 

As  in  Alaska; 
And  nowhere  shine  the  stars  so  bright 

As  in  Alaska. 

The  days  are  nowhere  quite  so  gray, 
The  nights  are  nowhere  quite  so  gay, 
For  Heaven's  forgot,  and  Hell's  to  pay, 

Up  in  Alaska. 

And  nowhere  is  the  gold  so  pure 

As  in  Alaska. 
The  people— well,  we're  not  so  sure— 

Up  in  Alaska; 

But  when  I  cross  the  Great  Divide, 
I  only  hope  that  by  my  side 
Will  stand  some  comrades  true  and  tried, 

As  these  up  in  Alaska. 

[33  ] 


The  Malamutes  wail  loud  and  long 

Up  in  Alaska; 
It  is  the  Arctic  slumber  song 

Up  in  Alaska. 

But  joy  comes  fast  and  shadows  flee, 
The  winters  fly  in  mirth  and  glee, 
For  nowhere  flows  the  Hootch  so  free 

As  in  Alaska. 

And  when  we've  left  this  barren  shore, 

Up  in  Alaska, 
Perchance  to  come  to  Nome  no  more, 

Up  in  Alaska, 

We'll  often  say,  "Here's  one  on  me," 
To  those  old  friends  on  Bering  Sea, 
Good  luck  to  all — where  they  may  be, 

Up  in  Alaska. 


[34  ] 


Merry  Christmas 

(For  Christmas  Cards) 

There  is  speeding  to  you  o'er  the  long  white  trail 
A  heavy  load  by  this  dog  team  mail — 

A  load  of  wishes  for  Christmas  cheer, 
And  the  best  of  luck  for  the  coming  year. 

The  hope  of  joys  without  an  end, 
And  a  load  of  love  from  your  absent  friend. 


[35  J 


Santa  Glaus 

Have  you  very  often  wondered, 

When  good  Santa  Glaus  is  due, 
Just  where  he  lives  and  what  he  does, 

And  how  he  hears  of  you? 
He  hears  because  a  station, 

As  installed  by  Uncle  Sam, 
Now  brings  us  all  important  news 

By  wireless  telegram. 
And  when  he  learns  how  good  you've  been, 

All  through  the  past  long  year, 
He  fills  his  sled  quite  full  of  things, 

And  calls  his  fleet  reindeer. 
So  if  any  one  should  ask  you 

Where  old  Santa  has  his  home, 
You  can  say  it's  in  Alaska, 

And  his  address  there  is  Nome. 


[36  J 


A  Christmas  Carol 

I  am  sending  this  Christmas  Carol, 
And  it  carries  my  wishes  true, 

That  all  of  the  good  and  happy  things 
May  be  given  to  yours  and  you. 

I  can  send  you  no  scarlet  holly, 

Nor  a  wreath  of  mistletoe, 
To  bear  you  the  season's  greetings 

From  this  land  of  ice  and  snow. 

And  we  have  no  Robin,  red-breasts, 
With  voices  like  silver  flutes, 

So  with  love  I  am  sending  a  Carol, 
As  sung  by  our  Malamutes. 


[37] 


A  Wish 

May  your  life  be  as  full  of  brightness 

As  Alaska's  long  June  days, 
When  at  midnight  the  sun  just  sinks  to  rest, 

But  leaves  us  his  golden  rays. 

May  your  troubles  and  sorrows  be  shorter 
Than  our  brief  December  days, 

When  our  noon,  like  a  ghostly  twilight, 
Is  shrouded  in  soft  gray  haze. 

May  your  skies  be  as  clear  and  starry 

As  those  of  our  Arctic  nights, 
And  illumined  with  mystic  splendor 

Like  the  glory  of  Northern  Lights. 


[38] 


The  Trail  Song 

(Sung  to  the  Air  of  "The   Handicap  March"  by  the  Children  of  the  Nome 
Grammar  School) 


There  are  songs  of  the  South  where  the  tall  palm 
stands, 

And  the  desert  is  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  camels  stalk  o'er  the  burning  sands, 

And  the  Arabs  swiftly  ride. 
There  are  songs  of  the  Western  cowboys  bold, 

Of  the  East  and  its  caravans  quaint  and  old, 
But  give  to  me  the  frozen  sea, 

And  the  song  of  the  Long  White  Trail. 

Away  we  go,  o'er  ice  and  snow, 

For  a  spin  on  the  Long  White  Trail, — 
And  little  we  care  if  cold  winds  blow, 

Or  the  day  be  bright  and  fair — 
With  a  steady  grasp  of  the  handle  bar, 

'Neath  the  winter's  sun  and  the  Polar  Star, 
Our  hearts  never  quail,  our  dogs  never  fail, 

And  the  Trail  stretches  free  and  far. 

[  39  ] 


For  this  land,  vast  and  grand,  this  land  of  the  Mid 
night  Sun, 

Has  the  finest  sport  that  the  world  has  seen — 
A  sport  that  takes  courage  and  judgment  keen — 

And  the  flying  feet  of  our  teams  so  fleet, 
As  they  speed  o'er  the  trails  on  a  run, 
Plainly  show,  as  they  go,  there's  danger  as  well 

as  fun. 
For  it's  "Gee"  and  it's  "Haw"  and  it's  "Put,  put, 

put," 

Over  a  bump  or  rut, 
With  a  steady  grip  and  a  cracking  whip, 

Past  town  or  native  hut, 
There's  the  sound  of  yells  and  cheery  bells, 

And  the  cry  of  "Mush,  Mush,  Mush," 
On  they  go,  never  slow,  the  men  and  the  dogs  in  a 
rush. 

Chorus 

Alaska's  the  place  where  the  dogs  set  a  pace, 

That  startles  the  world  outside. 
They  do  not  dream,  with  a  little  dog  team, 

We  can  take  a  jolly  joy-ride, 
Like  a  lightning  flash,  away  we  dash, 

Over  the  hill  and  dale. 
We're  off,  we're  off,  for  our  spin  upon  the  Trail. 

[40] 


Christmas  Night  in 
Nome 

It  was  Christinas  night,  and  the  holly, 

In  the  softly  shaded  light, 
Gave  the  season's  touch  to  the  festive 
board, 

And  a  scene  that  was  gay  and  bright. 

And  the  silver  and  crystal  gleaming, 
And  the  laughter  so  cheery  and  free, 

Made  us  all  forget  we  were  exiles  here, 
On  the  shore  of  Bering  Sea. 


And  our  thoughts  unfettered  crossed  frozen  wastes, 
From  the  darkness  of  ice-bound  Nome, 

As  we  spoke  of  those  distant  places 
That  at  heart  we  still  call  Home. 

And   standing,  we  drank  to  the  Absent  Ones, 
And  we  pledged,  in  bumpers  of  wine, 

The  health  of  our  friends  so  far  away — 
And  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 


[41  ] 


Es  Selamu  Aleikum 

(When  Nile  Temple,  Nobels  of  the  Mystic  Shrine,  Made  a  Pilgrimage  to  Nome 

in  1909,  They  Were  Presented  with  a  Key  of  Nome  Gold 

and  the  Freedom  of  the  City) 


To  you  who  rest  a  moment  in  our 

midst, 

As  pilgrims  to  the  shore  of  Ber 
ing  Sea, 
The  portals  of  our  hearts  we  open 

wide, 

And  give  you  entrance  with  this 
Golden  Key. 


-     I///, 


What  though  we  dwell  beneath  the  Northern  Lights, 
You  come  to  us  from  sunnier,  summer  lands 

To  sing  the  glories  of  the  Southern  Cross, 
And  guide  our  footsteps  o'er  the  Burning  Sands. 

With  you  we  stand  before  the  Mystic  Shrine; 

Its  splendid  visions  fill  our  eager  eyes, 
Of  Sultan's  mosque  and1  slender  minaret, 

And  Houri's  gardens  where  the  moonlight  lies. 

Forgotten  is  the  wolf  dog's  lonely  cry — 
The  white  and  silent  trail,  the  boundless  snows; 

A  Mecca  of  Alaska  you  have  made, 
Where  thoughts  of  you  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 


[42] 


Please  Allah  that  some  day  our  broad  Yukon 
May  be,  with  temples,  like  your  mighty  Nile, 

And  grant  that  many  a  Shriner's  Caravan 
May  come  and  tarry  with  us  here  a  while. 

Search,  if  you  will,  the  tents  of  Bedouin  Sheiks — 
And  meet  the  Arab  in  his  desert  home — 

You  find  no  truer  welcome  than  we  give, 
Nor  warmer  hearts  than  beat  in  Arctic  Nome. 


[43  ] 


[44] 


The  King  of  the  Trail 

When  the  sons  of  Bonnie  Scotland  feel  the  call  of 

sport  or  duty, 
On  the  shore  of  fair  Loch  Lomond  or  on  frozen 

Bering  Sea, 
You  will  find  some  tale  heroic,  one  of  pluck  or  iron 

endurance, 

That  will  rouse  the  pride  of  Scotsmen  in  their  "ain 
countrie. ' ' 

Far  away  from  crag  and  heather,  to  this  drear  and 

icebound  Northland, 
Scotland    sends    to    White    Alaska    men    whose 

staunchness  does  not  fail. 
So  a  toast  to  "Scotty"  Allan,  who  has  proved  his 

grit  and  courage, 

And  is  known  the  wide  world  over  as  the  King 
of  the  Arctic  Trail ! 


[45] 


My  Pupmobile 


I've  ridden  on  a  camel  where  the 

tall  and  stately  palm, 
Stands  sentry  to  the  Desert's 

burning  sand; 
Used  a  gondola  in  Venice,  and  a 

rickshaw  in  Japan ; 
Breasted  breakers  on  Hawaiia's 
coral  strand; 

I  have  traveled  on  a  burro  through 
the  mountains  of  New  Spain ; 
Sailed  the  Tropic  Seas  upon  an 
even  keel; 


But  for  sport,  give  me  Alaska  with 

its  white  and  silent  trails, 
And  a  spin  behind  my  Racing 
Pupmobile. 


The  Alaska  Forget-Me-Not 

(Written  for  the  Closing  Exercises  of  the  Nome  Grammar  School  after  the 

Society  of  Alaska  Pioneers  had  Chosen  the  Forget-Me-Not 

as  the  State  Flower  of  Alaska) 

In  this  far  away  Alaska, 

With  its  deep  and  trackless  snows, 
Winter  comes  so  very  quickly, 

And  so  very  slowly  goes, 
That  the  fair  and  fleeting  summer 

Is  a  dream  of  brief  delight, 
With  its  air  so  soft  and  balmy 

And  its  days  so  long  and  bright. 

And  it  seems  as  if  to  pay  us 

For  the  gray  months  bleak  and  cold, 
That  the  smallest,  simplest  blossoms 

Here  some  rare  new  charms  unfold ; 
And  of  all  these  welcome  flowers 

Answering  to  the  sun's  warm  glow, 
There  are  none  that  touch  the  heart  strings 

Like  "Forget-Me-Nots,"  I  know. 

So,  in  looking  for  an  emblem 
For  our  Empire  of  the  North, 

We  will  choose  this  azure  flower 
That  the  sunny  hours  bring  forth. 

[47] 


For  we  want  men  to  remember 

That  Alaska's  here  to  stay, 
Though  she  slept  unknown  for  ages, 

And  awakened  in  a  day. 

And  we  want  them  to  remember, 

Though  her  heart  is  one  of  gold, 
There  are  many  other  treasures 

That  she  offers  to  unfold. 
She  has  men  of  brawn  and  muscle ; 

She  has  men  of  brain  and  fire, 
Who  will   help  to  win  her  honors 

And  achieve  her  soul's  desire. 

She  has  women  who  have  followed 

Where  the  brave  frontiersmen  roam, 
Who  are  sure  that  where  the  heart  is, 

There  can  always  be  a  home. 
And  Alaska  has  her  children, 

Who  no  fairer  land  have  known, 
Yet  the  love  of  our  whole  country 

In  each  little  mind  is  sown. 

So  we  want  to  tell  the  nation 

That  the  mines  and  golden  sands 
Yield  no  richer,  surer  fortune 

Than  our  loyal  hearts  and  hands. 
And  although  they  say  we're  living 

In  the  "Land  that  God  forgot"— 
We'll  recall  Alaska  to  them 

With  our  blue  Forget-Me-Not. 
[48] 


A  Growl  from  Nome 

(Written  in  1911  in  Answer  to  a  Poem  Galled  "Derby  Day  in  the  Yukon,"  by 
"Yukon  Bill") 

Now,  I  ain't  very  keen  on  these  poetry  chaps, 
And  there's  mighty  few  poets  I  kin  read — 

But  Dunham  and  Service  jest  hit  me  right, 
For  they  tell  o'  the  things  I've  seed. 

They  might  sound  queer  to  the  folks  outside, 

Onnatural  and  wild-like,  too — 
Though  the  tales,  God  knows,  in  this  Northern  Land 

Ain't  never  too  strange  to  be  true. 

When  I've  read  all  kinds  of  Alaska  stuff 

That's  printed  in  poems  or  a  book, 
And  I  see  how  the  plain  facks  is  twisted, 

I  says,  ''It's  poetic  license  they've  took." 

But  I  jest  struck  some  verses  by  "Yukon  Bill," 

And  I've  got  to  butt  into  the  game, 
For  he  ain't  no  poet,  and  the  license  he's  took 

Would  put  Annanias  to  shame. 

He  calls  the  Sweepstakes  "The  Yukon  Race 

That  brings  the  Yukon  fame," 
And  his  ignorance  is  somethin'  fierce 

When  he  tries  to  describe  the  same. 

[  49] 


Now,  them  Yukon  towns  ain't  put  up  a  cent 

Toward  the  purse  o'  this  here  event, 
And  them  Yukon  sports  never  put  in  a  team 

Though  an  invite  was  often  sent. 

So  it  makes  us  sore  when  "Yukon  Bill" 

Talks  o'  "Yukon  Derby  Day," 
And  tries  to  tell,  what  he  never  knowed, 

In  a  foolish  kind  o'  way. 

He  speaks  of  a  dead  dog  throwed  to  the  wolves — 
Though  it's  one  o'  the  rules  o'  the  race 

That  every  dog,  alive  or  dead, 
Must  be  brought  to  the  startin'  place. 

He  says  that  they  never  pause  for  food, 

Nor  give  the  poor  brutes  a  drink — 
And  lash  them  and  whip  them,  till  bloody  and  blind, 

They  stiffen  and  stagger  and  sink. 

Now,  "Yukon  Bill"  is  a  trustin'  chap 
If  he  heer'd  and  believed  sech  a  lie, 

But  he's  got  his  nerve  to  put  it  in  print 
For  Nome  folks  to  read  and  deny. 

[50] 


For  we're  proud  o'  the  way  that  the  men  and  the 
dogs 

Come  through  all  the  hardships  they  face, 
When  they  speed  four  hundred  and  eight  long  miles 

In  this  wonderful  Northern  race. 

I've  seed  every  start  since  the  year  it  begun, 

And  I've  seed  every  finish,  too — 
So  although  I'm  some  shy  on  this  poetry  stunt, 

You  can  bank  on  my  words  bein'  true. 

Five  times  the  Kennel  Club  green  and  gold 

Has  fluttered  so  bright  and  gay, 
And  each  team's  colors    has  decked  its  friends 

On  our  April  Racing  Day. 

And  the  throngs  has  surged  through  the  narrow 
streets, 

In  sunshine  or  howlin'  gale, 
To  wait  for  the  thrill  of  each  trumpet  call, 

When  the  men  and  the  dogs  hit  the  trail. 

And  the  cheers  that  ring  in  the  mushers'  ears 
Are  the  cheers  that  come  from  the  heart — 

For  the  bets  you've  made  jest  fade  from  your  mind; 
They  are  favorites  all,  at  the  start. 

[51  ] 


And  then,  when  the  last  team  is  out  o'  sight 

And  everyone's  under  a  spell, 
There's  nothin'  kin  rouse  them  from  tales  o'  dogs 

But  the  sound  o'  the  telephone  bell. 

And  every  soul  in  the  whole  blame  burg, 

From  Grandma  to  Angel  Child, 
Is  askin'  "Central"  to  give  'em  "dope," 

And  the  "dope"  comes  fast  and  wild. 

And  it  comes  for  three  whole  days  and  nights, 
And  "Yukon"  for  once  spoke  well 

When  he  said  that  nothin'  could  touch  this  race 
In  the  whole  wide  world,  or  Hell. 

Our  eatin'  is  done  when  the  news  is  slack, 
As  for  sleep — well,  we  don't  get  none — 

For  we  sit  at  the  'phone  and  hear  how  each  team 
Is  a  makin'  that  "terrible  run." 

How  them  "staggerin'  brutes"  o'  "Yukon  Bill's 

Is  a  gettin'  their  alcohol  rub, 
And  a  massage,  too,  and  a  downy  bed, 

And  their  fill  o'  wholesome  grub. 

How  Dalzene  talks  to  his  weary  team, 
And  tells  'em  with  tears  in  his  eyes 

That  they  won't  have  to  run  up  to  Candle  again, 
No  matter  how  big  is  the  prize. 

[52  ] 


And  care,  why  when  Scotty  at  Baker's 
Was  a-thought  to  be  takin'  a  nap, 

He  was  rubbin'  the  frost  from  McMillan's  feet, 
And  a  holdin'  Mc's  head  in  his  lap. 

Of  course,  we  know  that  the  race  is  hard, 
For  everything  is  that's  worth  while — 
But  freighters  is  often  in  far  worse  shape 
When  they've  gone  barely  fifty  mile. 


"Bill"  says  when  the  race  is  all  over, 
That  the  dogs  has  no  honor  in  Nome — 

And  the  winners,  neglected  on  bar-room  floors, 
Lies  gaspin'  and  covered  with  foam. 

I'd  jest  like  to  show  to  this  Yukon  poet 

How  the  racers  get  pettin'  and  care, 
And  is  fed  upon  food  that  would  give  a  few  points 

To  a  Yukon  Hotel  Bill  o'  Fare. 

And  he  speaks  o'  the  drinkin'  and  orgies, 
When  the  contest  is  turned  to  a  feast — 

And  he  says  that  there's  brawlin'  and  fightin' 
Till  you  can't  tell  a  man  from  a  beast. 

Now,  the  camps,  "Bill"  knows,  may  be  full  o'  sech 

sports, 
But  here,  when  the  racers  coma  home, 

[  53] 


The  men  is  Men,  and  the  dogs  is  Friends — 
And  there's  pride  in  'em  both  in  Nome. 

When  the  boom  o'  the  gun  at  Fort  Davis 
Tells  the  news  that  the  winner  is  near, 

With  the  whistles  and  bells  all  a  ringin', 
There's  the  sound  of  a  rousin'  cheer. 

A  cheer  for  the  man  who  has  conquered, 

For  the  dogs  that  has  set  the  pace 
0'  strength  and  speed,  at  their  masters'  need, 

In  Alaska's  Sweepstakes  Race. 

And  there's  honor  and  praise  awaitin' — 

For,  whether  they  win  or  fail, 
They're  Heroes  all,  in  the  eyes  o'  the  North, 

For  their  pluck  on  the  Arctic  Trail. 

These  here  are  the  facks — and  I  hope  "Yukon  Bill" 
When  he  busts  into  poetry  next  time, 

Will  tackle  some  country  a  long  ways  off, 
Or  put  somethin'  he  knows  of  in  rhyme. 


[54  ] 


Songs  of  the  Sea 


(Written  for  an  Entertainment  on  the  S.  S.  Senator,  off  Sledge  Island,  in  a  Storm, 
October,  1909) 


Oh,  don't  you  think  that  you  could  hurl 

Into  a  watery  grave, 
The  fool  who  gaily  pictured  life 

"Upon  the  ocean  wave." 

And  he  who  penned  the  verses 
All  about  the  "deep  blue  sea," 

Ah !  would  that  he  were  with  us  now, 
Beneath  Sledge  Island's  lee. 

And  with  him,  too,  the  fiend  who  wrote 
"The  Cradle  of  the  Deep," 

Be  sure  we'd  see  that  he  "in  peace" 
Did  not  "lie  down  to  sleep." 

I  know  some  farmer  voiced  that  rot 
About  the  "billowy  main," 

Who  never  trod  a  deck  nor  strayed 
Beyond  the  "billowy  grain." 

As  for  the  famous  idiot, 
Who  when  he  wrote  of  snow, 

Could  call  it  naught  but  "beautiful," 
We  hope  he  roasts  below. 

[55] 


At  first  it  seems  that  sudden  death 
Is  all  that  fits  the  crime 

Of  those  who  put  such  lies  in  songs 
Or  make  them  into  rhyme — 

But  that,  I  fear,  is  far  too  mild— 
They  should  be  forced  to  roam 

From  now  until  Hell  freezes  o'er, 
Between  the  Sound  and  Nome. 


[56  ] 


Metempsychosis 

In  the  gray  of  the  Arctic  twilight, 

As  close  by  my  side  she  lies, 
I  ponder  the  fathomless  mystery 
That  broods  in  my  wolf  dog's  eyes. 

She  is  gentle,  yet  fiercely  loving — 
She  is  jealous  and  stealthy  and  wise, 

As  ever  she  watches  and  guards  me, 
With  a  yearning  that  never  dies. 

Together  we've  crossed  the  frozen  wastes, 
We  have  breasted  the  howling  gale, 

We  have  seen  the  glory  of  Northern  Lights; 
Together  we've  starved  on  the  Trail. 

Is  there  something  that  holds  her  to  me, 

Some  secret  I  cannot  know, 
An  expiation  of  crime  or  wrong 

That  happened  long  ages  ago? 

Is  there  bound  in  this  wolf  dog's  body 

The  soul  of  some  woman  of  old, 
Who  lived  and  loved,  and  betrayed,  perchance, 

When  her  love  was  growing  cold? 

[57  ] 


The  soul  of  some  passionate  princess, 
Who  dwelt  where  the  Desert  sand 

Sweeps  down  to  the  banks  of  the  templed  Nile 
In  that  sun- warmed  Lotus  Land? 

Or  the  soul  of  an  Indian  Nautch  girl, 
Who  trampled  the  hearts  of  men 

Into  dust,  'neath  her  slender  and  jeweled  feet, 
And  for  this,  is  she  living  again? 

Or  is  it  some  spirit  that  drained  to  the  dregs 
The  wine  from  the  full  cup  of  life, 

And  left  the  Hemlock  for  others  to  quaff, 
Laughing  lightly  at  ruin  and  strife? 

And  who  was  I  in  those  centuries  gone, 

And  what  was  her  guilt  to  me, 
That  makes  her  my  dumb  and  willing  slave, 

In  the  North  by  the  frozen  sea? 

If  mine  was  the  sorrow  and  hers  was  the  sin, 

And  all  that  is  now  had  to  be, 
Whatever  her  debt,  she  has  paid  it  in  full, 

And  her  prisoned  soul  shall  be  free. 

And  I  wonder  if  some  time,  in  ages  to  come, 
Will  the  ghosts  of  this  dead  past  arise, 

Shall  I  know  then  the  mystery  that  broods  today 
In  my  faithful  wolf  dog's  eyes? 

[58] 


Nome 

There  lies  on  the  shore  of  a  frozen 
sea, 

All  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  drifted 
snow, 

A  little  town  on  a  dreary  beach 

Where    the    icy    winds    from   the 

Arctic  blow. 

Where  the  White  Trails  lead  to  the  Great  Outside, 
Where  the  ghostly  glow  of  the  Northern  Lights 
Gives  way  to  a  summer,  as  brief  as  fair, 
To  be  banished  again  by  the  cold  bleak  nights. 
Yet  no  matter  how  rare  are  the  scenes  I  view, 
How  lovely  the  spot  I  may  call  my  Home, 
As  the  compass  needle  will  turn  to  the  North, 
So  my  heart  ever  turns  to  distant  Nome. 


[59  ] 


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